


like shelter from the rain

by thereinafter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Kissing, Missions, Sharing a Bed, Warrior Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22590091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereinafter/pseuds/thereinafter
Summary: Hawke has always said things. It’s possible she could mean them. Aveline wants to find out.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Aveline Vallen
Comments: 18
Kudos: 74
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	like shelter from the rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterpanic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterpanic/gifts).



Aveline grinds her boot toe into the sand beside the coast gate. She asked for Hawke’s company on this job, took it herself instead of sending a guard detail, because she wants to talk to her. Alone.

And now she’s waiting, alone, because Hawke is late, which she should have expected. Probably in the Hanged Man. 

She weighs going to roust her out against just finishing the job herself. The gang was already rag-tag before they fled Kirkwall, and if the stolen goods can be recovered, the victims will be grateful. 

But there’s no telling how many of them are left. Aveline does want Hawke’s extra muscle, and the whole point of the exercise was to bring her along. Make herself speak her mind.

The clouds overhead are gray and heavy. A wonderful day for it.

“Aveline!” The voice makes her jump. She turns.

“You didn’t leave without me this time.” Hawke is a tall rawboned figure taking long steps to catch up, black shaggy hair falling in her eyes, familiar smile lines, that wide endearing grin. 

Aveline sighs, mostly to herself. She can’t keep letting herself off the hook. “I always appreciate the help, Hawke.” She adjusts the pack on her back. “So does the guard.”

“Anything for the Kirkwall guard,” Hawke says, still grinning, “as long as the captain appreciates it.”

She pushes back the spark she feels. Hawke has always said things. It’s possible she could mean them. She’s never been shy about liking other women, and recently Aveline thinks more and more that she wants to find out. 

But Hawke also likes to joke. And she values Hawke’s friendship above a great many things. But she can’t go on having feelings that need hiding. And. But.

Aveline strides away from her circular thoughts and toward the fugitives’ trail. “We may catch them before dark, if we hurry. My informants say they have a bolt-hole in the sea caves. Unless the Coterie finds it first.” 

“Running unauthorized scams in Darktown. I guess you have to admire their guts.” Hawke matches her in an easy rhythm, sword bouncing in the shoulder harness beside her pack. 

The Wounded Coast winds and rises before them, weak sun behind clouds at their backs, sand yielding under their boots. It’s as chilly as it gets in Kirkwall, misty, with a wind off the sea. But walking gets the blood moving, just like on any patrol, and soon, Aveline doesn’t notice.

They talk about the job, and Undercity power struggles, and a letter from Bethany, and what Varric’s latest story got wrong—normal friendly talk, nothing she wants to follow with a sentimental confession.

As the day wears on, when the paths narrow, Hawke walks ahead, so that Aveline can’t avoid seeing when she stretches and runs through idle sword forms, probably to keep warm in that sleeveless furry jerkin she insists is her trademark. She stays in better shape than most of the guards, no matter how Aveline encourages training. Fereldan army discipline stuck there, if nowhere else.

Hawke shouldn’t occupy her mind just because she’s here. They’ve always been able to share a comfortable silence. But watching her now is _not_ , or maybe _too_ , comfortable. 

What is she going to say? Not that. 

Hawke hums a tavern song and spins the two-handed sword with one hand, showing off.

Aveline sets her jaw. She needs to have it out. Clear the air. Hawke will understand. Hawke is her closest friend. Hawke has been there—

Ahead, the humming is interrupted by a crack and a surprised yell, and she’s gone. Aveline breaks into a run down the trail. “Hawke!” 

She’s clinging to the edge of a no-longer-disguised fissure in the rock, her pack and sword in a pool of water below, along with the planks that broke under her. "Aveline," she says through gritted teeth, “look out, it's a trap.”

“Very funny.”

“Please pull me up."

Aveline drops her pack, braces herself by the edge, and grips her arms so Hawke can use her to climb. It’s a familiar, rough intimacy, being trusted with her life.

The touch, and the risk, and the waiting loosen her tongue enough to say, “Hawke, I wanted to talk about something.” 

“Okay.” Hawke strains to lift herself, muscles standing out, and scrabbles for a foothold. “Er, now’s not the best—” She slips and her hands lock on Aveline’s arms.

“No,” Aveline grunts. “This is a highwayman tactic.” She heaves Hawke up, leaning back for leverage. “We need to get moving. Just … remember I said it.” 

_Coward_ , she’s telling herself, when an arrow whistles past her ear. 

“Shit!” Hawke pulls most of her body over the edge, nearly headbutting Aveline, who tumbles backward with her. Another arrow hits the rock above them. She rolls to bring her shield around. Someone was watching their trap. 

Hawke nods in the direction of the arrows, blue eyes bright. Aveline nods back. She counts to three, then springs up, driving forward behind the shield, Hawke following.

There are three of them around a little hidden campsite, caught off guard—they must prefer easier victims. Defenseless ones. Aveline bashes the archer in the face. Another pulls a dagger; Hawke kicks it away and punches him. The third man scrambles backward up the path, turns tail, and runs. After a few more energetic exchanges of blows, his friends flee after him.

Aveline leans on the rock to catch her breath, letting her blade drop. “Not our city men, but remind me to send a cleanup patrol.” She recovers her pack.

Hawke walks back to peer over the edge where she nearly fell. "My sword’s down there. I can see it."

"We're already behind. Take one of theirs."

“You know theirs are trash.”

Aveline sighs. It is a very good sword. "I have a rope."

“Of course you do.” Hawke smiles winningly.

She gets out the rope in its tidy coil, and Hawke abseils down into the hole, and after an irritating amount of time Aveline pulls her out again, with the sword, her dripping pack, and a satisfied look.

“Some kind of cave, full of seaweed. Pack’s mostly ruined, but I got it.” She dries the blade on her pant leg.

Wind gusts up off the sea. The sun is sinking, and the clouds are getting more ominous. 

“We should press on.” Aveline isn’t going to fail at both purposes of this mission. She begins to pick her way around the fissure to where the path continues.

“My fault.” Hawke slings the sword back over her shoulder. “I’ll walk as long as you want. The arm of the law must not be thwarted, and all that.” She holds up her fist and flexes. Aveline chuckles.

And she doesn’t complain, hiking along after Aveline down the coast even when rain starts to blow in, in fits and starts, like spray off the waves. 

At first, Aveline puts her head down and forges on. A little damp never hurt anyone, and knowing Kirkwall weather, it could change any minute. Besides, it gives her another kind of discomfort to think about.

When the first flash of lightning comes, though, she admits they need to get off the trail. A guard in armor was struck in front of his partner on Captain Jeven’s watch: a fast death, but not a pretty one. And they’re the tallest things on this high ground.

“Hawke! We have to find cover!” she calls back to her.

The cliffs along this stretch of coast are riddled with caves big and small, mainly popular among pirates and smugglers, but she’s grateful for them now.

“There!” Hawke points to a clump of brush beside the path, obscuring a natural arch in the cliffside below. They climb down and pile in right before the storm proper arrives, a sheet of water closing out the world.

It’s more of an alcove, with cracks between the rocks overhead, a sandy floor, and a back wall of earth only a few paces in. Rain beats on the stone outside and trickles through steadily, thunder rolling behind it over the sea.

Aveline stares out at the downpour, dabbing moisture from her face. The whole day is probably a write-off now, but at least they’re sheltered and somewhat dry. Too bad there’s nothing to burn. 

She glances back at Hawke. ”Not much to do but make camp and wait.”

Hawke fishes through her even more soaked pack. “I had a deck of cards, but ...” She dumps out the contents, then takes apart her bedroll and begins trying to wring out the blankets.

Aveline’s is sensibly wrapped in oilcloth, and not at all wet when she shakes it out. She finds a few packets of travel rations and tosses one to Hawke.

“I’ll sit watch if you want to get some rest,” Hawke says, holding up her bedraggled blanket. “That old soldier saying, sleep when you’re lucky.”

Aveline unbuckles her cuirass and sets it aside.

Hawke hunkers down by the wall and chews on the trail bread, half-bare arms wrapped around herself. Apt to catch a chill and go around sniffling for a week. A drizzle falls from above and she jumps, muttering a curse.

It’s not really _surprising_ that Aveline has the only dry bedroll, but today ... well, if the Maker wants to force her hand, he can try. Letting Hawke sit in the mud isn’t an option.

“Come on,” she says at last, ignoring the tension inside her, “we’ll share. I’m not leaving you to shiver.” She unfolds the dry blanket and moves to one side.

“… Thanks.” Hawke toes off her boots and climbs in next to her. There isn’t enough room. 

When her leg brushes along Aveline’s, she pulls it away a little. Aveline feels all of her proximity as they lie down and try to get comfortable back to back, each squeezing herself inward to stay on half the bottom blanket.

“Is that warmer?”

Hawke clears her throat and pulls her feet up a bit more. “It’s fine.”

“Well, don’t let me sleep too long. I’ll take the second watch.” She’s saying things just to fill space now. “We’ll go whenever the rain lets up. With any luck, the thieves will take cover and stay down while we catch up.”

“Whatever you say.” Hawke’s voice is very close behind her head. 

Aveline closes her eyes. Maybe she’ll think of what to say on her watch, when it’s quiet.

Minutes stretch out. Aveline tries to sleep. Hawke stops holding herself away so stiffly and relaxes into her back, a long shape of firm angles and curves she wants to lean on in return.

It’s been years since she shared a bed with anyone.

"Aveline," Hawke says after a while.

Aveline sighs and feels her stiffen again. "What?"

"You're not asleep, are you?”

She should be tired enough. She was up with the sun for the guards’ muster. "Not with you—” She quickly adds, “Talking." 

"Sorry." 

Hawke is quiet. 

"Aveline?"

Not opening her eyes, Aveline groans. 

"Didn’t you want to talk about something?"

"Not now."

"I mean, neither of us can sleep."

"Just let me try."

"Just tell me the thing. I’m only doing what you said.”

"Hawke. It’s … I'm not good at this on my best day. You can witness, this is not my best day." 

“I am a good listener. Ask half of Kirkwall.”

Hawke won’t let her out of it. Aveline takes a long, nominally calming breath, and knows in her gut that right now is going to be her best chance. She turns to face her in the bedroll, as if launching herself into a charge downhill.

"Fine. Here’s the question. When you said to me, ‘I need you, Aveline,’ ‘I’m here whenever you want,’ ‘I wouldn't turn you down.’ Did you mean that?" She’s turning red to match her hair, she also knows. Wesley used to laugh. Hawke can just take it or leave it.

"Sure." Hawke returns her gaze straight on in the dim light, pushing her own wet hair out of her eyes. "Why?"

"Seriously, Hawke? All of it?" 

"Yes." Hawke crosses her heart. "I’m an uncomplicated woman. I say what’s in my head.” Surprise creeps onto her face. “Wait, you remember all that? I never thought you even heard me or gave a shit."

"Because I ..." Aveline starts, and then, “I think …”

Their faces are very close together.

“What are we doing here?” Hawke says under her breath, soft, reaching out to touch her cheek.

All the awkwardness of the day crests in one unbearable moment as Aveline steels her nerve and moves two inches. 

Their mouths graze, catch, then fit. 

It feels sweet and tense. It feels like they fit. Aveline stops, running out of nerve.

Hawke looks poleaxed, for all of a second, then takes her face in both hands and pulls her back in. Her lips open to Aveline’s. Her mouth is warm, generous. Aveline loses track of what she meant to do, if she had any other intentions. This is enough. It’s good, better than that. Hawke feels good, breathing against her, leg hooking around hers, arms solid around her neck. 

Relief rushes inside her, coupled with exhilaration, like she’s won a battle against odds. Aveline breaks the kiss and pushes herself up to look down, just to confirm she has.

Hawke’s smiling up at her. “You didn't so much want to _talk. Aveline_.” She looks as giddy as Aveline feels. It’s the best-case scenario, the one she didn’t hope for, like the day she became captain.

"I may have wanted to do that since the first year, Hawke. I’m not sure."   
  
“Well, I am. I did mean it.” Her smile blossoms into a huge crinkly grin, eyes blue even in this light. “But, Maker's breath, Aveline, you do know I have a house? A very comfortable—"

Aveline laughs in still-fresh relief and surprise as Hawke tumbles her onto her back, feet tangling in the blanket. 

"—well furnished, fireplace-heated, cellar-stocked, bandit-free—" She plucks off Aveline’s headband and kisses her cheek, nose, and forehead, still beaming. “—watertight house.”

Hawke’s weight on her is good, too, exciting, her body molding to Aveline’s through the padding and buckles and rings of their gear. She’s imagined it like this, in rare moments. She wraps her arms around Hawke’s back and lets it sink in: Hawke’s lips on her skin, her neck, whispering how she can’t believe it, the smell of sweat and rain. 

A trickle of raindrops from the cave roof splashes through Hawke’s hair into hers. “ _Watertight_ ,” Hawke repeats.

“Shut up, Hawke.” Aveline laces their fingers and with a little effort wrestles her underneath once more. “This took me a lot of work.” She brings her mouth down again. Hawke makes appreciative noises into the kiss, accepting the momentary pinning and struggling only a token amount.

When Aveline lets go her hands, Hawke hugs her tight. “I’m only saying, you didn’t have to do it the hard way.”

"Maybe not."

"But, then again, who am I talking to?” She pauses. “And this has been some truly captain-grade warming, by the way. I’m so much warmer now.”

"Good." Aveline pulls the blanket almost over their heads to catch the drops, then lets herself settle into the simple pleasure of being held and their combined warmth. For a moment she thinks of Wesley again, but this isn’t that: it’s something new they’re already creating, and she’s glad of it.

They trade slow experimental kisses and touches in this new comfortable silence, studying each other’s faces, listening to the rain, and feeling out this way of being together. 

Then Hawke murmurs, "And, despite appearances, I came along to help you, so ... what’s your plan here, captain?” 

“My plan is to finally get some sleep and catch those men tomorrow.” It feels like she can now, pleasing lassitude overtaking her body. “You don’t know what it’s been like, getting up the nerve.”

“You could have kissed me any of these years, you know.” She strokes a lock of hair off Aveline’s forehead. “I’ll shut up. Whatever you need, whenever, I said it.” 

Aveline smiles and closes her eyes. Hawke continues stroking her hair, the touch awkwardly gentle, lulling her toward sleep. 

“After we catch them, maybe dinner at my house?”

All that remains is lightness, and a pleasant, quiet burn of anticipation and certainty. “That’s a promise.”


End file.
